


Home Again

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'I’d still be running around a bloody desert somewhere with a gun and my medical pack if...’ John swallowed. ‘I wouldn’t have come back until... until I was sent back.’</i></p><p>WWII AU. September, 1943. John has been discharged from hospital and Sherlock stays with him for the first night back at Baker Street. Fitting back into his old life isn’t as easy as he thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Again

_September, 1943_.

It was pouring with rain when the military car pulled up outside 221 in the early morning. The driver jumped out and began to unload the few things John had been sent with from the hospital, stacking them against the boarded up shop front next to the heavy black door. John reached a shaking hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his keys; familiar and alien at the same time. Grasping his stick tightly, John got out of the car, his feet landing with a small splash in the gutter next to a drain that rainwater flowed down.

The numbers and the knocker were filthy without Mrs Hudson’s weekly application of brass polish. The drawn curtains at the windows and the grey, miserable sky overhead made John even more reluctant than he already was to open the door.

‘Sir?’

John turned to look at the driver, who smiled at him, despite the fact she was getting soaked. Her hair was pinned back and tucked under a smart hat that matched her uniform. ‘Open up, Sir, and I’ll help you with your things.’

‘Yes,’ John said, bristling slightly at being told what to do. ‘Yes, right.’

He walked forwards, favouring his good leg, and slotted his key into the lock, pausing for a second before twisting it. The driver picked up John’s case and a paper bag resting on top of it before wrestling his army pack into her arms. He’d managed to persuade Mycroft to let him keep it.

Setting his jaw, John pushed the door open, shoving harder when he felt the resistance of months and months’ worth of post behind it. Once in the dim hallway, he stepped back to allow the driver inside, who smiled at him again.

‘Upstairs is it, Sir?’

‘Um, uh, yes, let me, don’t you worry about--’

‘It’s fine, Sir,’ she said, sidestepping John’s outstretched hands and walking briskly up the stairs, leaving the case and the bag and the pack just outside the door. John flexed his fingers on the curve of his stick as she came back down. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asked, linking her arms behind her back.

‘No, no thank you, that’s all, thank you for, ah, getting me back safe, I uh...’

‘I’ll leave you to it, Sir,’ she said, and with a parting smile and a salute she was gone, the heavy front door closing behind her.

John stood motionless for a moment before regarding the pile of post on the floor. His stick made a soft thump on the carpet as he went over to it, gritting his teeth as he bent down and gathered a few dozen letters, placing them on the table meant for the post and painstakingly repeating the action until the floor was clear. Most of the letters were for Sherlock, though there were a few for himself he’d deal with later. Breathing heavily, John straightened up and closed his eyes as he rubbed at his leg.

‘Christ,’ he muttered, clenching his left hand to stop its shaking. He lifted his head and glared at the seventeen steps before starting to climb them determinedly. His hand disturbed the thick layer of dust on the bannister - something else he’d have to deal with - and a musty scent hung heavy in the air. Breathing laboured again, John reached the top of the stairs and let out a soft groan. Steadying himself, John fumbled in his pocket for his keys and got the right one after a bit of fuss.

He slid it into the lock, turned the key and let the door swing open.

Home.

***

Sherlock arrived in the late afternoon.

His shoulder stiff and sore and his leg and hand un-cooperative, John had only been able to take the dust sheet off the kitchen table and had been sitting there for much of the day, drinking London’s metallic water and staring at the marks in the table’s wood.

He’d been re-issued with a ration book but had had neither the energy nor the inclination to see about getting any tea or food in.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

‘John?’ Sherlock’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs. ‘ _John_?’ The sound of heavy feet missing most of the steps and the front door clattering open was heard and Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, breathless and grinning.

‘Ran all the way from Bletchley, did you?’ John asked with a gentle smile.

‘Mmm, I would have done, for you,’ Sherlock rumbled, swooping down and sealing his and John’s lips together, coaxing John’s chin up with two fingertips on the underside of it. They both deepened the kiss after a few seconds, lips parted, tongues twisted together. John reached up with his good arm, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him closer, sliding a hand in between the buttons of his coat.

After a few minutes of fevered kissing, Sherlock pulled back, staying close enough to rest his forehead against John’s, his breath huffing over John’s lips. ‘I...’ he closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’ He kissed John again, chaste but hard, his brow creased. ‘No. No, that’s not it. I... I’m glad you’re safe,’ he amended, stroking his hand through John’s hair.

John’s answering smile was weak.

‘I’m glad to see you,’ he said quietly, brushing Sherlock’s bottom lip with the tips of his shaking fingers.

***

‘How’s your shoulder?’ Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes closed, head resting in John’s lap. ‘How’s your leg?’

‘They could be worse,’ John said. He ran the backs of his fingers of his right hand along the curve and sweep of Sherlock’s cowlick, his left hand clenched into a fist on the arm of the sofa. ‘Could be better.’

Sherlock kissed the inside of John’s wrist and sighed. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.’

‘No, it’s alright.’ John traced the line of Sherlock’s jaw, brushed over his lips. ‘They need you.’ A pause. ‘And you need the work.’

Opening his eyes, Sherlock brought his hand up and squeezed John’s forearm, rubbing his thumb over the rough wool of John’s blue jumper. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

John shook his head, frowned. ‘Don’t be. I’d still be running around a bloody desert somewhere with a gun and my medical pack if...’ He swallowed. ‘I wouldn’t have come back until... until I was sent back.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Even if you were in my place.’

Sherlock didn’t look surprised. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, sitting up in a fluid burst of movement. His tweed trousers and waistcoat creased as he twisted round, pulling John into a kiss. ‘And they never would have let you go anyway. They’d be utter loons to let you go without a fight.’

John laughed humourlessly. ‘Well, they certainly got that.’

The downstairs clock struck six.

He reached out and grabbed his stick that had been resting against the arm of the sofa, taking a breath in before standing up with a grimace.

‘Are you alright?’ Sherlock asked, swinging his legs off the sofa, planting his feet on the floor.

‘ _Fine_ ,’ John snapped, walking heavily over to the wireless. ‘Don’t fuss, the last bloody thing I need is you fussing, I’ve had weeks and weeks of it.’ He thrust his hand out and grabbed the dial of the wireless before sighing, closing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. He twisted the wireless on and turned back to Sherlock. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t--’

‘It’s alright,’ Sherlock said. ‘Don’t... just... no matter.’

‘Sorry,’ John said again, barely audible over the rich voice of the newsreader reciting the headlines. ‘Let’s have some of that tea you brought, yes?’

Sherlock nodded and brought his knees up to his chest, leant forwards just slightly to look out of the window.

***

Sherlock woke in the early hours of the morning to a frantic muttering coming from John, punctuated every few seconds by sharp, frightened cries.

‘John,’ Sherlock mumbled sleepily, coughing to clear his throat. ‘John,’ he said again, fumbling around until he found John’s bicep and squeezed it.

Their bedroom was completely dark thanks to the boards at the windows and the lack of light both from outside and anywhere in the flat.

John drew in a shuddering breath and thrashed on the bed, trying to yank his arm out of Sherlock’s grip.

‘John,’ Sherlock said a little louder, moving his hand to settle in the dip between John’s neck and his good shoulder. He was drenched with sweat.

‘John,’ Sherlock repeated after another pained cry tore itself from John’s lips. ‘ _John_!’

A cracked sob sounded loud in the high-ceilinged room as John sat up with a jolt, his back military straight, tears streaming down his cheeks.

‘Only... only a nightmare,’ Sherlock said, sounding somewhat lost, resting his hand gently on the top of John’s back. ‘You’re alright.’ He kissed John’s sweaty temple and stretched his arm out to turn one of the bedside lamps on.

‘Oh God,’ John breathed as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden intrusion of light.

‘What is it?’ Sherlock mumbled, yawning, rubbing John’s bad shoulder lightly. He opened his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he whispered as soon as he saw the state of the sheets on John’s side of the bed. His hand stilled on John’s shoulder as he took in the soaked bed covers, a large wet stain spreading from around John’s waist to somewhere near his knees.

‘John, it’s alright,’ Sherlock said after a moment’s shocked silence from them both. ‘It’s alright, it’s not your f--’

‘Get out.’

‘John--’

‘ _Get out_!’ John roared, pushing the sheets down towards the foot of the bed, curling in on himself, hiding his face in his hands.

‘John,’ Sherlock whispered, resting his hand on John’s shoulder blade again. ‘John, I don’t care, it doesn’t--’

‘Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter,’ John snarled, shoving Sherlock away, first by his arm and then pushing frantically at his chest, his side, his thigh. ‘Don’t touch me, Sherlock, don’t, just...’ John released a trembling breath and hid his face again, his shoulders shaking as he started to cry. ‘Don’t. Just leave, Sherlock. _Please_.’

Sherlock’s lips parted and he blinked rapidly. His mouth went to form the shape of John’s name and he reached out with his hand to touch John’s back but stopped when there was just an inch of space between his fingertips and John’s back.

‘Sherlock. Please.’

Sherlock stretched over the bed and brushed his lips over the top of John’s spine. ‘I love you,’ he breathed before he stood up, wrapped his dressing gown around himself and made his way downstairs.

***

It was six o’clock before John emerged from the bedroom and came downstairs, freshly bathed, in his dressing gown and a clean pair of pyjamas, the sheets tightly bundled under his arm. He left them at the side of the stairs, kicking them against the bottom step in an attempt to make them as inconspicuous as possible.

Sherlock was waiting at the kitchen table. He smiled briefly and pushed the teapot across to John as he sat down. John didn’t meet his eyes.

Neither man had slept.

‘The tea should be just about ready for you, I’ve had it brewing for some time.’

‘Thank you.’ John dropped two lumps of sugar into his mug from the new packet that Sherlock had undoubtedly acquired illegally somewhere, added a level teaspoon of powdered milk and poured the tea in from the pot.

‘I, ah... I have to go, this afternoon, I have to go back,’ Sherlock said, his voice quiet,

John nodded and stirred his tea slowly.

‘I should be able to come and see you in a month or two, if you... if you would like that.’

John sipped his tea and stared out of the window, his eyes dull. ‘It’s probably best you stay there.’

Sherlock dropped his gaze from John’s face to the table. ‘Oh,’ he murmured. ‘Oh.’

***

The day stretched on in silence. Sherlock went upstairs to dress at around two and came back down in his usual grey tweed, a midnight blue tie knotted around his pale neck. He carried a smart black briefcase in one hand, which he put down at the bottom of the stairs, next to the sheets off the bed.

‘Your car’s here,’ John said when Sherlock stepped into the living room. He was standing at the window, left hand trembling violently at his side as he leant on the walking stick the hospital had sent with him.

‘Prompt as ever, Mycroft,’ Sherlock muttered under his breath. He pulled his scarf and coat off the peg on the wall, took his hat off the skeleton’s head and put it on the telephone table as he wrapped the scarf around his neck.

‘Safe journey back, then,’ John said quietly, turning round to face Sherlock. He still wasn’t dressed, and his face was grey and worn.

Sherlock fastened the last button of his coat and nodded. He went to pick up his briefcase and grabbed his hat before he faced John with a sigh.

There was ten feet of space between them across the room.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Sherlock said after a long moment of silence. ‘I’m... I’m very glad you’re safe, though.’

‘I’m not,’ John replied immediately, his expression hardening.

Sherlock ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth and walked forwards, bending to kiss John’s mouth. John turned away so that Sherlock’s lips brushed his cheek instead. Closing his eyes, Sherlock exhaled a sigh and straightened up.

‘Right,’ he bit out. ‘Fine. I’ll see you soon.’

He looked at John for a moment longer, eyes flickering over face and body, taking in everything he could until he turned on his heel and strode out of the flat, coat tails billowing behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [When the Lights Go On Again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzlFaY0s_QI) by Vera Lynn.


End file.
